


The Aura

by RedRidingHood24



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Claudia Stilinski Memories, F/M, Jealous Lydia, Kitsune Stiles, Lacrosse, Pancakes, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRidingHood24/pseuds/RedRidingHood24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After practice, Stiles comes home to relax, only to be confronted with something new to fear altogether. One photo changes his entire world in a way that had been creeping up on him for all too long. Stiles and the pack have to approach his new form in the only way they can: with force. Contains Stalia, Stydia, and Scira. Takes place in season 4. Will have some of new characters. Won't follow some of the plot and conflict because this is being written as season 4 premiers. For Glarinetta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> : This story is being written for Glarinetta. She messaged me asking me to write this for her and it’s a pleasure. I hope she’s happy with it as she reads! And anyone else reading, of course. Some ideas are hers, including the main idea, and some are mine. Enjoy!)

Lacrosse season begins again when the weather cools down. Guys huff out spit and water while they run their shaky legs across the field for. Malia is in the stands, waiting for us to be finished with our session. First line is a big responsibility and Scott and I have to maintain it. We swing our sticks ahead, wailing balls into the goal, pulling our shoulders out with each one. Kira is running suicides with Danny. Back and forth they go, Kira moving faster than him, ripping up dirt with her agile form. Using fox fire in a game is an illegal move, right?

                Malia doesn’t know much about Lacrosse, so we bring her down and let her play when practice ends. We’ve been trying to bring her back into a human life. I stand behind her, her hair tickling my face, and guide her through the directions to swing the stick to make a goal. “Grip it here,” I tell her as I wrap her hands under the net and at the bottom. “You ultimately want to be able to shoot with one hand, but this is fine.” I move the stick back and let her hands go. “Now whip it over your head.” Malia brings the stick back further as she’s watched us do so many times. She puts her foot down in front of the other in a stride and sends the ball across the field, the net traveling over her head just like I instructed.

                “Oh my God!” She yells and bends to put her hands on her bare knees. The ball made it just outside the goal.

                “Yeah! You’re getting it!” It’s always fun showing her new things. She tries to pick them up as fast as she can, craving knowledge and trying to please everyone with how quickly she’s adjusting into the life of a teenage girl.

                Kira gets out her new camera and snaps a few shots of the players when she’s done running. She’s careful to only take them of Scott when he’s looking to the side so his eyes don’t blind the entire picture. There are a few flashes around Malia and I before she sets the camera down.

                Before too long, the gang hops in the jeep, Kira and Scott in the back. They hold hands but nothing is serious yet. If battling Oni together isn’t serious, I don’t know what is. I’m still not sure what Malia and I have yet, but it’s working through its issues. Issues like abandoning the pack in the midst of danger because “everyone should fend for themselves.”  Again, it’s a work in progress.

                We take a back road instead of the main one I would take to go to Scott’s house. Malia gazes out the misty window and into the woods. I expect her hand to come up, to try to touch it. I know she misses running on four legs, being warm covered in a fur coat, and feeling the chill of the hunt on her teeth. I so often feel like I cheated her out of a life she loved. We can only hope she loves this new one even a fraction as much as her wild one.

                I drive past the Tate mailbox and up the dirt road into the now familiar scattered trees of her front yard. “Coming to the game tomorrow?” I ask before she gets out. For a moment, I fear that she’ll say no because I know how she hates being crowded.

                “Sure. Sounds fun.” It’ll be her first game. I like being the one to give her all her firsts. It feels like an important job.

                “Goodnight, Malia,” I say when she pats the door from the outside, telling me to turn the key.

                I’m left sitting alone in the front now. “Kira, you’re next.” Scott and Kira don’t live far from each other, so it won’t be long. I’m happy for that, seeing as my arms are like jelly after practice. Scott would normally spend the night after but we have our first game of the season tomorrow and we both need a full night’s sleep.

                Kira gets out at her stop, giving Scott a hug when he gets out to sit up front with me. Only a hug. He looks at me, a little pained, but keeps his complaints to a huff and “I don’t want to push her into something.”

                I pat him on the back once. “You’ll be okay, Scotty-boy.”

 

                After I drop Scott off, I’m finally home. _Dinner is in here, bucko_ , is written on a sticky note posted on the microwave. Parsley potatoes and baked ham sit on a plate, still a little warm. I can always trust my father to make foods so high in sodium. But I can see he took one of my ready-made healthy lunches with him to work this morning, so I’ll give him this one. A little intimidated by his cooking, I take a cautious bite. Good enough for a starving lacrosse player it seems, because I take it up to my room and sit down to the research on my desk from yesterday.

                I can barely keep my eyes open enough to read the first paragraph, so I put it down. I debate on listening to music, but I choose the bed instead. Lying down after a long practice always feels like a big breath of fresh air. My air is still a little damp from showering at the school but it shouldn’t be a big deal. I don’t think we even own a blow-dryer anyway. A wet pillow will have to do.

                As I’m swallowed up by my blanket, I hear buzzing being muffled by sleep. It’s pulling at my ears and I realize it’s more of a ringing sound. The most annoying tone imaginable is coming from my bedside table. I leave it to be answered in the morning. I’m too far out of it now.

                The rays of sun slowly work their way into my room. My dad bustles and moves downstairs. He takes morning shifts in the fall so he won’t miss my night games on Fridays. I reach for the phone that had bothered me all night. It’s all a little blurry, but I can make it out. A message from Kira dated two minutes after her seventh call, and five calls from Scott. Kira Yukimura rolls across the top of the screen over the caption, “you need to see this.” It’s a photo of Malia and me, playing together last night. My eyes finally settle on the orange cloud illuminating my entire body.


	2. Search and Destroy

I put on my normal plaid shirt and sling my backpack over my shoulder. I haven’t texted Kira or Scott yet and I’m not planning on it. I’d rather wait to talk to them in person about it. Kira seems to know more, since she has a similar experience every time she takes a photo of herself. The only thing I can tell myself is that it is not the same thing. “Leaving early today?” My dad asks me when I greet him in the kitchen.

                “Yeah, gotta help Scott with something.” He nods his head and licks his thumb. A pancake mess is strewn around the kitchen and his hands are dripping with syrup.

                “Fast food?” He puts two done pancakes on a saucer and offers them up. My dad has always made small versions of my mother’s. The ones she made were big and fluffy, and they would soak up so much butter and syrup you’d swear you didn’t put any on. But I love the way he tries. How he piles on the toppings anyway and lets himself make the kitchen messy. Mom always destroyed it, every Sunday morning and when we had breakfast for dinner on days that Scott and Melissa came over. I was so small then. Scott and I would put the mini sausages under our top lips and chase each other around, up and down the stairs, while our parents talked. Melissa came over more after Rafael left. My mother supported her on the nights when she couldn’t keep herself together. Scott would tag along and we’d stay up all night, sneaking around the house. Building forts was our thing and there wasn’t a time when they weren’t built in the bathtub. We’d fall asleep sitting up but it was worth the pain.

                “Looking forward to your game tonight, kid,” dad says before I reach for the door handle.

                “Me too, dad.”

                I remember the moment the house felt different. Mom’s sickness became unbearable on the same night. The night we admitted her to the hospital. I flipped through her books lying on the coffee table of the living room, trying to understand the topics. She’d always been interesting in mythology and I’m glad for that. Her collection of books makes my research much easier. “I want to go to Japan so badly, Stiles. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” She pushed the book to me and pointed to a picture of a beautiful, lush garden full of thick plants, towered high with flowers and a plentiful fountain spouting in the middle of it all. It’d been the topic she’d been invested in the most. She kept the books dusty and they’d lay about the house, but she treasured them. “You hear that, sweetie? They’re talking,” she’d whisper and lean close into me. I tried my hardest to listen, to hear what she was hearing, but it never came to me.

                I down the pancakes and a cup of orange juice in the jeep to make sure I have enough energy for the day. The gentleness of the drive puts me back in my living room. “You’ll remember all of this for me, right? Since you’re so smart,” my mother spoke as she handed me a pile of the leather bound encyclopedias. I knew she forgot things often, but I tried not to think about it. I would dismiss it when she’d forget to get me from school and tell Melissa that she probably just got busy when she picked me up along with her own son.

                “I’m sure you’re right, hon,” Melissa would say and drop me off at the Sherriff’s station.

                “See you tomorrow, buddy,” was Scott’s speech. It’s hard to remember him with a fragile body.

                My arms chill when I remember the way her hand tightened on my arm, and the way she used my real name. “Go get your father, baby.” She hadn’t wanted me to panic, but I did.

                “Daddy!” He raced in, still in his Deputy uniform, and grabbed her when her eyes rolled back.

                “Claudia, wake up. Help me pull her up.” I’d never seen my father cry before then. I’d never heard the shakiness in his voice. It all makes me wish the walls hadn’t been freshly painted a week before then. It makes me wish they still had her on them. It took a long time before they even held photos again.

                               

                I meet Scott, Kira, and Lydia in the library, where we have an excuse to whisper. “I can’t really tell if it’s shaped like anything.” Kira places two fingers on the screen of her phone and pushes them out, zooming in on the orange aura. “Maybe it’s just a light leak or something. It’s too bright out to try again.”

                “You’ve been feeling fine, right?” Scott looks at the picture over Kira’s shoulder.

                “Yeah, everything’s normal.” Well, normal in my standards.

                “There’s really no sense in asking Deaton, then. There’s nothing to work off of.” Lydia uses Kira’s phone to send the picture to her own phone. Nowadays, it’s Lydia or Malia. They are hardly ever in the same room as the other. It gives me equal doses of each, though. In ways, it’s easier that way. “Kira, if you give me your camera, I’ll take more at the game tonight,” Lydia says.

                “I’ll put it in your locker after lunch. I need it for yearbook.” Kira has joined a few clubs at the encouragement of Mr. Yukimura. She’s made a few acquaintances but she really only sticks with us.

                I have my next class with Lydia and Scott. Textbooks are open around the room but no one is really paying attention. Lydia is scribbling in her notebook as always. She probably already knows all of this. When I lean back in my seat to see what Scott’s doing, I receive a quiet text.

                A message from Derek Hale reads: _Scott sent pic, we’ll figure it out._ Great, so everyone knows. I just want to play the game tonight and sleep my ass off after. I try to focus on the lessons between memorizing the plays for tonight.

                During free period, I help Malia with some homework she’s been having trouble with. All signs points to frustration when she tosses her pen down on the desk. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be fine. You’ll get it. I promise.” Malia just stares down at the papers and bites her lip. “How about I do this one for you. And then I’ll teach it to you later, when there’s less pressure.” She stands up and presses her lips to my face, then to my mouth and I know her eyes are turning blue.

                “I’ll see you tonight. Thank you. Really.” Malia and I stand right before the bell rings. I just want to know what we are. When she kisses me, it’s like she only kisses me because she likes how it feels. It’s almost the same as when she sneaks in my room at night. What I want is confirmation. It’s all I’m asking for.

               

                Night pulls in with fog and stars overhead of the playing field. The locker-room is electric with energy like fire. Freshmen to seniors, boys line the lockers with bodies ready to shred the grass and take down our opponents. I strap on my pads and pull the jersey over them. I change from pants to shorts and lace my shoes. “Greenberg! Your jersey’s on backwards. Son of a bitch. You’d think after all these years; you’d know how to dress yourself!” Coach tugs Greenberg out of his jersey with difficulty. “Your arms, Greenberg!” When it’s finally on Greenberg correctly, Coach proceeds around the room, showing us all his teeth in a vicious grin. Scott, Danny and I prep the freshmen while Coach finishes. “Today is the day we celebrate…our Independence Day!”

               

Thundering feet pummel the ground along with the ones in the bleachers. Metallic thumping and yelling comes from the crowd. “Twenty-Four!” Lydia and Malia scream, buried beneath too many people. “Eleven! Fifteen!” I spot them. Malia is wearing quilted leather and I notice because I love it on her. Lydia’s a trooper, still in heels. But she’s put tights on over her once bare legs for the weather. How do I focus on first line when they’re in eye-shot?

                I feel like Scott must have on his first game after the bite. The terrified feeling that was starting in my stomach has made its way to my throat. Before I know it, the game’s begun and Scott’s looking to me to send me the ball. “Stilinski! Look alive!” I hear Coach yell from the sidelines. The ball is flying straight towards my net and it’s like it slows down for me. The once fast forwarded game is now traveling through thick air. I can see the ball rolling through the path Scott created for it.

 I raise my stick.

                The pressure of the reception pushes down in the net and I take off. This is not adrenaline. This is my entire body creating a system to search and destroy. “Stiles!” In the corner of my eye, I see Kira stop behind another player. She must feel it.

                “ _Behind_ ,” a voice whispers inside my helmet.

It was barely audible through the amplified sound of my breathing and the sweat coating my ears, but I hear it. I turn in time to dodge an attack that would have rendered my shoulder useless. I speed forward and easily put players of the opposing team down in the dirt.

                “I don’t know.” Somehow, Lydia’s voice makes it into my helmet, a different kind of loud than the undetectable whisper from earlier.

                “Stiles!” Someone’s yelling again. Is it Danny? Scott? Maybe my dad? He took a place next to Melissa before the game started but this sounded closer.

                I swing.

                I see the ball get caught in the goal before I hear a high pitched scream that seems to vibrate; a scream that is not cause by the excitement. It cuts off when my body cracks underneath the weight of six men.


	3. Red: No Clue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Here’s an update!

My eyelids stick when I pry them open. A familiar beeping goes on beside me, constant but not annoying. I’ve been here before. My room smells clean but I don’t have much of a view to really check the corners for dust bunnies. I can hear the voices of a few doctors from the open door, flipping papers and shuffling their feet. This is the first time I’ve been conscious but I know Melissa is my nurse. She requests to tend to any of us, whether it is a normal everyday injury or something a little more…supernatural.

                “Stiles? Are you awake?” Melissa’s voice is fuzzy beside me.

                “Mhm,” I say. I’m very groggy but I don’t feel any pain. “Is anything broken?” We have a whole season of lacrosse to play and I’m finally out on the field. I can’t be benched.

                “Well…no…” She says and stands up. Melissa’s piece of hair that had been tucked behind her ear and not in her ponytail falls in front of her face. “Look.” She pulls up one side of my gown. I would’ve been embarrassed about my underwear if it weren’t Melissa. “Your hip bone shattered but…I just ran you though an X-ray and it’s…repairing itself. There’s barely a bruise.” She places a finger along the curve of my hip, the bone popping out as it normally does. Dark blue splotches map out along my lower half. “Can you feel this?” She asks as she puts pressure on the spots.

                “No. I mean, maybe it’s a little sensitive. It’s about a one…or a two, I don’t know,” I stammer.

                “Scott was here but he left to get Kira’s mom. He said she’d know. After that, we’ll call Deaton.” I can feel my body rumble, my toes tingle. I reach down and grip her hand.

                “I don’t think I can figure this one out.”

 

                Scott should be here any minute. My eyes are shut tight. I can _feel_ them. I feel them pressing in the sockets, how much lighter the darkness of my lids is. I open them and they’re _burning._ I stand the flames for the few seconds that I see the entirety of the room and then I snap them closed. Melissa flipped the lights off on her way out so I could rest. I shouldn’t be seeing anything. My lids open again and I try to ignore the burn but it’s like I’m looking straight into the sun. They’re watering but I start to see more than an outline of furniture and wheels on chairs. They’re all becoming colorful. Dull colors, but colors all the same. It was all deep black at first but it’s as if the room had developed.

                A knock on the door seems too loud. I know it’s Scott before he speaks. It’s his smell. Not his cologne but the rough scent of his lupine form beneath his skin; the rawness of it, cloaked by his soap. My nose filled with his worry and just how _Scott_ the whole thing was. Something was wrong.

                “How are you feeling?” He can tell by the smell of my anxiety, but he asks anyway, for my comfort.

                “In some ways, better.” Scott nods. Someone in the hallway looks in, black hair shifting across a face. Noshiko.

                “Is it okay if she comes in?”

                “Yeah,” I answer. Scott waves Noshiko in. For a moment I wonder why I’m still laying down if I’m not hurt, but I don’t trust my legs, especially if I can’t trust my eyes. She breathes in deep.

                “Can you feel it?” She asks.

“Feel what?”

“ _The fire_.” Her fingers curve in, her hands placed beside her ribs. She almost whispers it, like a happy memory. When I don’t answer, she leans into the bar at the end of the bed. “Your aura is strong. It is power, Stiles. Strength.”

                “Do you know what is wrong with him? Why any of this would happen?” I haven’t told them about my eyes or the extreme sense of smell, but I know they know other things have been going on. I know Scott can feel it.

                “Kitsune,” she speaks quietly. “Spirit.”

                “Wait, wait. Spirit as in Nogitsune possessed? Because I absolutely cannot do that again.”

                “You are Spirit Kitsune. You must be careful, Stiles,” Noshiko warns. I swallow hard and feel Scott shift, sitting on my hospital bed beside my legs, and one hand resting on my knee.

                “How? How did this happen?”

                “I’m not sure, but it’s been there for a while. Inside of you.” ‘Like Kira,’ she wanted to say.

 

My dad arrives in the morning to bring me home. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He would let me walk, but the doctors would wonder why the kid who got tackled by an entire lacrosse team walked out without a scratch, so I lower myself into a wheelchair.

                “I’m sure.” I debated on telling him, but he knows I’ve healed.

                “Sheriff,” nurses say and nod on our way out

                He shakes in the car. The words “Kitsune” and “power” confuse him at this point. They were never on the chess board. “Maybe this way…you won’t have to worry as much about me…” He nods but clenches his jaw. “Dad. Trust me. I’ll be okay. I just have to figure out why.” I’m not sure I can rely on my own words.

“Stiles, we don’t even know how dangerous this is. I mean I-I,” he stutters,” I don’t even know if I should let you go to school.” Dad’s eyes squint and he raises his brows, his hand coming up off the steering wheel like it does when he’s frustrated.

                “Dad, it’s not contagious.” There’s silence for a while until we pull into the driveway of our home.

                “But it’s you in there, right? Not anyone else?” For a second, I see the worry of my father’s face. I see it from behind the Nogitsune called Void.

                “Yes.” I squeeze his hand. “Did you eat breakfast?”

                “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind…” My lips curve up and I go through the routine. Cracking eggs into a bowl, removing the yolks and pouring the whites into a pan dribbled with olive oil to substitute the fatty butter. Turkey bacon instead of regular, whole wheat instead of white toast. “Smells great,” dad says when he enters the room; carrying a file of papers he’d been reading over for days. A normal kidnapping case for a change.

                “Got time to eat it?” I ask and set a full plate in front of him. It isn’t fruit and granola, but it’s good enough to supply the energy he needs.

                “Absolutely.” The food goes down, one big bite at a time. Eventually, he leaves for work, giving me a tight hug before his Sheriff’s jacket is put on and a gun is strapped to his hip.

                I remember I invited Malia over for the day and maybe even the night. She’s picked up running as a hobby, so it’s nice to not have to drive over and get her. It’s about the time she arrives, so I stand by the window in the dining room to keep watch. Before long, I see her coming up the suburb’s main road, ponytail bouncing, purple shorts and a beige tank top. She’s still trying to get the hang of fashion. With the help of an occasional Lydia, she’s made a few outfits she’s particularly proud of. Exercise gear is always a mix and match though. And it’s incredibly adorable.

                Malia reveals a straight line of teeth when I shut the door behind me, slipping out onto the front step. She’s gotten comfortable with a slower speed than what she would use as a coyote. Her control’s been so great that a few of us have encouraged her to run track.

                “Hey, cutie,” she calls to me. “How much?” I pull up a pant leg, revealing some skin. I love making her laugh. She’s picked up a few references, most pertaining to sex and/or drugs. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s been caused by her sitting behind Greenberg and his minions in English class. “Hi,” Malia laughs softly and it’s almost a question; the way she puts her hands to the sides of my neck. _Kiss_? The greeting kisses, for us at least, are always small. They’re friendly and unsure, but as the nights progress, they become more practiced and easy.

                “Math or history?”

                “History,” she heaves. Math to Malia is like salt to slugs. “Hitler sounds like quite the bastard according to Lydia’s notes.”

               

We spill out on my bed; books, pages of Lydia’s notes, and snacks carefully selected by Malia. “Skittles and chocolate milk: a diabetic nightmare.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve always liked them together.” She lies out the Skittles by color. Reds, greens, yellows, all according to her highlighter colors.

                “Just as long as you don’t start eating it like cereal.” We read over her notes and she uses the method of rewarding herself with a color coded Skittle. She eats a red one for reading a paragraph; red for no clue. Malia reads a little more, and I pick up a yellow Skittle after she passes it. I hold it up near her mouth. She eyes me and gaps her lips. She holds the yellow candy between her teeth before breaking it in half. Malia presses her mouth to mine, slightly open, and slides the other half between my lips. Sweet lemon. It’s what she always smells like. As she works on more information, yellow information, she smells stronger of it.

                “I’m bored,” she sighs. Malia removes the candy from the book and bags it up. “What’s that box?” She points to the blue cardboard square on the top shelf of my closet.

                “Pictures.” I wring my hands together. Of course, she pulls herself from the bed, leaving a warm body print in the comforter, and picks it out of its slumber in storage. We change positions and lay our backs up against the headboard, making it creak.

                “Your mom,” she gently touches a grainy photo of my mother, smiling kindly in a direction away from the camera, brushing her hair from her face. My father, young and stronger from the military, stands beside her, a baby me in his arms. The photo has always been in this frame, gold and decorated with metal flowers tied around the corners with vines alike. There’s a cardboard gap of the backing at the bottom where the picture is pushed up. “It’s folded over.”

She flips the frame around, looking up at me and asking if it’s okay to pull back the small metal hinges securing the backing to the glass and photo. I nod and she begins gently tugging each of the four, her claws out and prying under them for more precise applied pressure. Malia is careful to lay the glass beside her and I take the photo when she pulls her claws back in. When I fold the flap back, creating a wrinkled white line in the crease, it reveals a dull orange cloud surrounding my mother’s head.

 

 


	4. Back To The Chess Board

“So is it the same?” I ask Noshiko. She fingers the photo of my mother. I don’t like having it out of the frame. It feels…unsafe.

                “It looks to be…” Scott stands behind me, his eyes glowing red as he concentrates while Noshiko explains.

                “I can see it,” he says. “The fox shape. Over Stiles.”

                “Yes, but I cannot see it in your mother, Stiles. The power. However, you have it. It must have skipped her. She may have been able to use basic Kitsune power, but none like yours.”

                “But why would she have any power in the first place?” I ask.

                “That’s what puzzles me. Your mother is not even of Japanese descent, that is, directly. It must have been strung so thinly through her genes. It’s just come full force through you. That makes sense. Kitsune blood is often transferred through a mother.” I carefully pluck the photo from Noshiko, storing it away in my pocket.

                “Do you think your dad knows?” Scott asks.

                “No, he was totally clueless when I tried explaining any of the werewolf stuff to him. I’ll ask him tonight.” He’ll pick me up from lacrosse and I’ll tell him on the way home. Car rides tend to be my usual news-breaking approach. Maybe because he can’t quite reach over to strangle me without wrecking the car.

                I’m not practicing tonight, and I won’t play this week’s game as a cover up for my “injury.” Everyone thinks I at least sprained something so I’ll sit on the bench and watch everyone else. The worst part is that I was getting really good with my shots and planned to impress Coach. “Thanks, Mrs. Yukimura,” I say and Scott and I exit her home with Kira in tow.

                “Got your props?” Kira asks. I shake my crutches around. I’ve been practicing using them for the few days I’ve been out of the hospital, trying to make my limp convincing. People might mistake it as a twitch though, nothing new.

                After a long day of Malia walking by my side as fake help, and crutching all over the school, my ass was ready to sit out practice.

                Lydia’s car pulls into the parking lot five minutes after practice starts. She hikes up the small hill in her low heels, her legs going up in smooth straight lines and disappearing under the edges of her skirt. She takes a seat next to me and says a quick ‘hello’ to Malia. “Nice stilts, Stilinski.” Lydia smiles. She’s been in a much better mood lately since she’s been seeing Ms. Morrell to talk about Allison and Aiden. It’s good for her to get rid of that bad energy. She says it helps her think more clearly.

                “Couldn’t have screamed a little earlier, Lyds?” I don’t mean it as an insult. I know she listens for clues as well as she can.

                “You had plenty of warnings.” Lydia raises her eyebrows, cocks her head to the side, and turns back to watch the guys swing the sticks.

                “Did you enjoy the game the other night? You know…without…” I put a hand on Malia’s knee, stroking it with my thumb.

                “It was fun,” she smiles. “Wasn’t it, Lydia?” Lydia turns her attention away from the players and looks us over.

                She breathes in once, almost a huff and says, “Mhm.” She flicks a hair away from her face and pulls the hem of her skirt. Antsy today, I guess.

                “I made the sign,” Malia boasts to me. “Lydia did the cursive, but I decorated.” She beams when she’s proud of herself. It _was_ a pretty sign. I’d barely noticed it, what with Malia looking like Malia, and Lydia looking like Lydia, but for the short second that I did, I saw how much effort was put into it.

                As much as I enjoy being whatever I am with Malia, I still think of Lydia as I did not long ago, before Malia. “Thank you for making it,” I tell them both. They gave it to Kira after the game as memorabilia, since it had all of our numbers on it.

                “Stilinski!” Coach’s voice breaks in. Oh God. “Are you sure you can’t walk on your hands?! I need you in goal!”

                “What, Coach, you have Greenberg in goal!” I look over to prove my point but Greenberg is lying in the grass, legs up and clutching his crotch.

                “Lopez hit him in the balls, and I know for a fact that Greenberg can’t walk on his hands. He’s left handed for God’s sake!”

                I want to, but I know I can’t blow this. I shake my head. Coach huffs, spit flying and nostrils flaring more than they need to. “Fine. But you owe me. Yukimura! Get in there! And protect your junk at all costs,” he grumbles.

                Scott and Kira square up, Kira readying herself to guard the goal, Scott leaning down to stabilize himself. There is no couple’s play when it comes to lacrosse, no mercy or gentleness, even with those two. They go for the throat.

                Scott swings back and forth, keeping the ball in his stick, trying to fake her out but Kira wields her stick like a weapon; like a sword. He charges. With a rough swing, the ball hurdles through the air. Kira jerks her stick out to her left side just before the ball goes in to the goal at full speed. It’s cradled in the net of her stick and she makes a sound at the impact.

                I can see Scott’s proud of her and I know he didn’t go easy on her. “Take that, McCall!” Kira yells and kisses him on the cheek.

                Greenberg is still whining, the ball must’ve hit him hard. Coach switches out players for the next few rounds. “Greenberg, do not puke on the benches I swear to God I will make you eat and digest it all over again!”

                               

 

                “You guys ready?” I ask after practice.

                “Actually, Kira and I are going to Derek’s and we were wondering if you wanted to come. To figure all this out.” Scott gestures to my leg. “He might have something. A way for you to learn control. Deaton says that’s all you can do.”

                “What do I have to control? Nothing’s happened.” I look up at him. Does this mean he’s my real alpha now?

                “Prevention is key,” Lydia pipes up. “I’m coming.” She gets up to go to her car and Scott, Malia, and Kira head for Kira’s red SUV. Just on time, my dad honks the horn of the Sheriff’s car. My jeep is in for inspection, so he is my only means of travel for now and I can’t back out and go with Lydia since he drove all this way when he could’ve just gone home. “I’ll pick you up at your house. We’ll go to Derek’s.”  Lydia looks to the police car and back at me. I nod.

                “Hey kiddo,” he says and squeezes my shoulder when I slide in.

                “I have something to talk to you about.” We’re halfway home now. I pull the photo out of my pocket and carefully unfold it. “Have you ever taken the family photos out of the frames?” He’s still looking out the front windshield.

                “Well, no, you know that. Most of them are in the attic, Stiles.”

                “She put them in the frames, right?” They were all taken with disposable cameras, so the photographer never saw the after-shot either.

                He nods to confirm. “Claudia used her grandmother’s frames. She never really wanted anyone to touch them. She said they were too fragile.” The road is slick with a night rain.

                “Maybe it wasn’t the frame that was fragile; maybe it was what was in it that was fragile.”

                “What do you mean? Did she leave something?” He glances at me twice, his Sheriff expression present.

                “Sort of.” I turn the picture towards him.

                “What the hell is that?” He squints. “Is that…is that a light leak?”

                “Not exactly.” I open my phone to show him the photo Kira took.

                “Ah, hell,” he sighs. “This definitely wasn’t on the chess board.”


	5. Anchor Down

Dad drops his ring of keys on the kitchen table. “She never…she never told me about…why didn’t she tell me?” He stutters.

                “Probably to keep you safe from,” I flail my hands around, “all of this. The supernatural.” He _was_ safe and I ruined it.

                “She was never dangerous, Stiles. Nothing was out of the ordinary.” He wipes his face with both hands and sighs. “Does that mean you’ll be like her? You won’t be…lethal?” He gestures with his fingers, making claws to illustrate the vicious creature I could become.

                “Actually, that’s what I’m going to find out. Tonight. If I can control it.”

                “What do you mean?” Dad asks, looking up at me through his fingers.

                “Lydia’s picking me up to go to Derek’s. He can teach me. Deaton will be there too.” I slip my jacket back on.

                He sucks in a breath. “Just… be home in time for breakfast tomorrow.”

 

                Lydia pulls into the driveway slowly, her tires crushing the small rocks that scatter on the pavement. I get in the passenger’s seat and wrap my seatbelt around my chest. On the drive, Lydia tries to make small talk with me. “So…” She purses her painted red lips and taps the steering wheel. “You and Malia seem well.” I nod.

                “We are. She’s really making a lot of progress.” Lydia acknowledges it with a raise of her eyebrows. She’s wearing jeans today; a rarity but it looks just as nice as a skirt.

                “Have you guys been…? I mean I’m just concerned.” She waves her hand, a dismissive look on her face.

                “Yeah. Yeah. But don’t worry. I have all of _that_ covered.

                “Good,” is all she says and opens her eyes wide and thins her lips Before long, we’re pulling into the large parking lot outside of Derek’s building. Scott’s dirt bike is parked on the small ramp that leads into a close-door loading dock, his kickstand down and two helmets hanging on the handlebars.

                Lydia’s wedges are quieter than her usual heels when we embark on the long journey that is the angular staircase. The wide metal door slides open to reveal the pack inside. Kira and Scott, Derek, and even Peter. Malia is at home with Mr. Tate, learning the ropes of Calculus.

                “Normally, to teach you control, I’d use this. But you know it’s a placebo. It’d have no effect on you.” Derek shows me the Triskellion; the object the Hales used to teach their natural born to maintain control over themselves. “The Alpha Beta Omega mantra doesn’t really apply to you anyway.” This brings me back to Scott practicing control without an object, but with a person. Allison.

                “You’ll have to find an anchor. And be quick. We don’t know when any of this is going to kick in.” I look at Deaton and remember his words not long ago: “someone who can pull you back.” That would have been Lydia. But I’m not who pulls Lydia back. It should be mutual. Malia. Malia is my anchor.

                “Should we…see if you can do anything?” Kira asks, looking innocent with her hands wringing together.

                Kira begins showing me how she uses her powers, but from what I’ve read about Spirit Kitsune, they don’t have the same abilities as Thunder Kitsune. But I let her teach me in case I can use the techniques.

                I was upset at first, finding out that I am indeed _something_ , but now that I know I hold a part of my mother, I’m almost glad.

                After about an hour, there’s nothing happening. Kira’s not as frustrated as I am, but I can tell she’s aggravated her tips aren’t working for me. My energy is at a low. Concentrating harder than I ever had is talking a toll on my brain and giving me a splitting headache. “What the hell…” I sigh. “How am I supposed to control something that I can’t predict?” I see Lydia nod in the corner of my eye. She understands how I feel. “How am I supposed to know I won’t sleepwalk and I don’t know, slaughter my dad and entire neighborhood?!” I’m raising my voice a little too much.

                “Dude, I promise we’ll get it figured out. We always do.” Scott puts his hand out, trying to calm me.

                “No, Scott, we don’t. We really don’t.” My breathing is becoming difficult. It almost feels like a hand on my throat, tears coming up into my eyes. A panic attack.

                Derek’s industrial windows shake with a sound that infects the building. Sparks pinch outside at the building’s ledges visible through the glass. I’m breathing more heavily than before. The thunder outside grows louder, rumbling the floor of the room. “Stiles, try to focus on your heartbeat.” Scott places my hand on my chest.

                “I can’t, Scott… I ca-I can’t.” My head pounds and the corners of my vision are becoming darker.

                “Stiles.” Scott speaks in a more demanding tone. His _alpha_ voice. “Breathe.” I feel his hand squeeze my shoulder. The warmth from his body goes through mine. I hold my breath for a second and then blow it out. I take a few more deep breathes but it’s not rushed. Scott removes himself from my space. The pack stands back from me. I see Derek glance out the window at the storm. But…it’s dry. The last roll of thunder comes with my final deep breath.

                Kira helps me from the floor. I don’t really want anyone to touch me, but I let her. Kira looks up at Scott and he nods. I ask him the question with my eyes. _Did I make that happen?_ I’m finally standing back on my feet.  I didn’t notice dropping to the floor.

 

                Scott drives me home and helps me up to my bedroom. I’m still shaken. Scott grabs both of my shoulders and pulls me in. His tight embrace gives me nostalgia of my time in the hospital before my M.R.I.  Scott and I don’t hug often, but when we do, it’s important. His arms wrap around me like a father figure, protecting me. _You’re my best friend; my brother._

                “I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep.” I shut my light off behind him and lie down in my bed. I roll around, not being able to shut my mind off. A chilly breeze comes in the room and tickles my back. It’s not unpleasant but I snuggle down in my blankets more. The window beside my head snaps shut and the breeze cuts off. I know who it is; I don’t have to turn and look. My back and stomach warms up with an arm and slim body cradling me.

                “Bad day?” Malia asks, whispering in my hair. I grab her hand that rests on my belly. We scoot to the middle of the bed, our bodies sinking into the mattress. I shimmy my body to press my back into her front, her soft chest hugs my shoulder blades, pilowy and smooth. Malia kisses my cheek. She leaves a little damp spot there, warm and sweet. Her face tucks in my neck and I anchor myself down, slowing my brain in a numb sleep.


	6. Little Spoon

Two weeks later, I finally get to play the game. I’m bouncing on my toes in the grass, my laces tied tightly and my equipment strapped around my body. My dad gives me a thumbs up from the stands. I take my helmet off and swipe my forehead, getting rid of the sweat that collected at my hairline. I see his eyebrows pull together. “You okay?” He’s asking silently. Slipping my helmet back on, I nod. Malia takes a seat beside him and buttons her denim jacket over her chest because of the chill on the wind. She smiles at me before Scott pulls me away. 

“If you feel  anything , you let me know, alright?” He speaks seriously. 

“You really don’t need to worry about me.” 

“Yes, I really do.” Coach blows his whistle and has everyone huddle in a circle. 

“Alright, girls. I have nothing to say except…don’t get your asses kicked. And keep your eyes open. I’m talking to you, Greenberg, you little sissy. Closing your eyes doesn’t make the monsters go away.” Coach claps once, sending us out on the field. Scott’s helmet to helmet with the other team’s captain. The Ref drops the ball between them milliseconds before Scott scoops it up. He immediately passes it to me as if saying “I’m trusting you.” 

I run with it. I run past my teammates without a second look, breezing past coach and the crowd. They’re all background and there’s nothing stopping me. I’m seeing so  so clearly. Is this what drugs feel like? Like I’m in the fast lane? I want to scream at them, “ do you feel it? Are you feeling this?” I swing. One after the other.  Goal goal goal. I’m programed for this. I’m hearing my name. Malia’s saying it, my dad, other dads, everyone. I’m eating power. The power of the vibrations in my feet, the absolute excitement; untainted by shots made by anyone else. The power to excel. There is nothing for me to fear. 

“Stiles.” My head pops to the side, hearing too well. “Are you coming?” Malia’s hand is in mine. The rest of the game is a blurred water color painting, but by the look of things now, it must’ve went well. We must have celebrated because of the smiles on the players faces, Gatorade cups in hand. 

“Ice cream time!” My dad smiles when he puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m not playing little league anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m not excited for ice cream after a big game. 

 

“God I can’t decide. Mint chocolate chip or pistachio?” Malia pulls at her hair, driving herself mad over the choices. 

“Ew. Since when has it ever been a problem for anyone in the history of anything to choose between sweet sweet heaven and garbage cream? Why on earth would you choose pistachio?” I turn around in my front seat to question her. 

“You don’t know unless you’ve tried it!” 

“For your information, I have. And I puked. Puked! And pistachio looks disgusting, for the record.” I squint my eyes at her. 

“Oh they’re both equally green,” she hisses and waves me away. My dad pulls into the small parking lot of the shop and we get out. Malia and I go to the counter while my dad talks with a deputy who had brought his son as well. 

“Moment of truth,” I whisper in her ear.

She straightens her back and with confidence she says, “Pistachio.” The girl behind the counter stares for a second.  She even thinks pistachio is an abomination and she spends all day around it. After we get our ice cream and my dads, we open the trunk of the sheriff’s car and sit in it cross-legged leaning over the edge in case we drip. “Mmm,” Malia sighs over the two wads of ice cream stacked on her cone. “Yep…I really know what I’m doing when it comes to desserts.” Dad comes over and retrieves his banana split. 

“Yes…” He laughs manically. “I will treat you so so well.” 

“Getting a little creepy there…don’t you think?” He takes a savored bite. 

“Oh no no, I’m not,” he coos at it like a baby. Well, he only gets sugary desserts on the nights we win games, so basically, it’s a rarity and he’ll protect it with his life. 

“I spy a Malia checking out my mint chocolate chip.” She nods, agreeing, and I switch with her. She has a bit of the green liquid on her lips and I want to lick it off even though its the dreaded pistachio. The only reason I don’t is because my dad is sitting two feet away with Deputy Pike and his son who would probably get off on it. I watch her bite into a chocolate chip, savoring the taste of it all. Everything she does is so interesting it’s unbelievable. I find myself watching her brush her teeth in the morning and at night or when she puts on Chapstick. These things all take place with her mouth, but it’s not about that. It’s that everything she tastes is almost brand new to her after all her years as a coyote, it’s so fascinating to witness. She smiles and takes her cone back but keeps mine too, switching hands so that mine is on my side. 

“Share?” I take a chunk off the top of mine and go back to watching her make a mess of it all. She puts both lumps on cones together and gets both flavors. “Yes!” She’s successful with her flavor combination. I line her hands with napkins and pluck the chocolate dust off of her chin. I sit back and tap my foot alone with the music coming from the two-windowed shop. 

 

“Thanks, Sheriff, but I’ll just run home. I haven’t in a while,” Malia tells my dad when he offers to drive her home. 

“Malia, just get in the car. I know you’ll just sneak in Stiles’ window anyway, so you might as well just come home with us.” Her eyes widen at the information that he indeed knows about her late night arrivals. He would have found out eventually anyway. 

Malia takes a shower when we get to the house and changes into a pair of my boxers and one of my old blue sweatshirts. “Comfy?” I ask. She nods, her eyes pulling out at the sides with a smile. She puts herself under my plaid blanket, kicking her feet until they’re quilted just as she likes them. I know she always thinks it’s cold in my room, so I turn on the space heater and roll it to her side. 

We assume the position. Her arm underneath her pillow, the other over my side, hand resting on my stomach. I nuzzle my back against her front and she puts her face into the crook of my neck. It’s cozy; our clothes brushing up and our hands locked together somewhere in between the rest of our bodies. There really is no shame in being the little spoon.


	7. IMPORTANT AUTHORS NOTE

IMPORTANT AN: Hey guys, I just wanted to let you know that I won't be updating for a little while, most likely. I'm cramming school work right now and I really need to focus on getting it done. It's my senior year and I'm trying to make it as least stressful as I can. I'll update when I can but there's no guarantee the chapters will be regular but I am not abandoning this story. I will finish it. Now that we have hiatus for a while, and are preparing for season 5, I'm probably going to start some other stories as well. I've written pilot chapters for two (stories?) and I hope you'll be on the lookout for those. One is just an idea that popped into my head after many hours of staring at pictures of Ian Bohen (you do it too, don't laugh.) It's sort of my spin on the Professor/Student AU and Pydia. It's a bit odd but I'm sort of loving it. Another is just silly thoughts I've had on Greenberg. I wrote this short snippet of kind of a Greenberg diary entry for my friend and she liked it so I thought that maybe I'd write a collection of Greenberg diary entries. In which Greenberg is sort of a locker-room creep and knows everyone's secrets. It's...it's weird but let me know if you'd be interested in reading them if I posted them. I hope you keep with this story even though the chapters will be few and far between! Thank you!


	8. The Manifestation

I wake up in too much sunlight. Malia’s on her stomach beside me, her hand tangled in her hair and the bright blue nail polish she’s wearing pokes out between blonde/brown locks. My shirt she’s wearing is pulled up her back, the blankets kicked off. It did get pretty warm in here with the space heater. The tiny hairs on her lower back are translucent against her tanned skin. Her mouth is open a little, front teeth poking out like a bunny. I brush her hair out of her face so it doesn’t tickle her awake when her breath blows it. I check the clock on the table beside her. It’s late enough for brunch so I go down to start making banana pancakes. Two ingredients, just like my mom did it: eggs and sliced bananas on the skillet. I’m glad Malia likes them this way because it’s nice to make them, to share some of my mother with her. After I eat mine, I save the rest of the batter and cover it until I hear feet padding down the stairs. “I smell bananas,” she breathes in deeply. She wouldn’t have to make a conscious effort to smell them, and neither would I now, but we both take the scent in as if we were human. I miss calling myself that. I didn’t like being...fragile, but it was almost my role within the pack; to be adopted into it without having to be supernaturally bound to it.

                I start to pour the batter for her pancakes on the skillet. I make sure they’re bite sized; that’s how she likes them. When she’s late for school on weekdays I make them and put them in a zip-lock for her so she can just pop them in her mouth before class. More often than not, her lateness is caused by her taking midnight runs through the woods, not spending the night here. She tells me she likes sitting on the rocks up high above the town, staring at the moon in all its shapes and phases. “For you,” I slide a plate in front of her and shamelessly watch her eat them. She doesn’t mind. The only reason I could think why is that she had to eat in front of plenty of animals in the wild. There was no shying away. You kill it you eat it right there. At first, she didn’t like me cooking for her, wouldn’t even let me. She’d do it herself or she’d go hungry. Coyotes are prideful animals.

                “Thank you.” She smiles at me sincerely. “Do you mind if I bag a few of these up? I’m hiking with my dad today and I’ll need a snack. I can’t exactly take down a raccoon to chew on now.” She laughs it off but I know she misses the thrill of being on four legs.

                Right now, I feel like Scott must when he’s around Kira, when he was around Allison. I can smell the little bits of the soap smell left on Malia’s body, the smell of my bed, the ice cream from last night and the banana pancakes on her breath, all the years in the walls of my home surrounding her, combining with her scent, _everything._ It’s almost as if everything is more four dimensional than it already was, like I can really _touch_ things. “Are you going to run over?” She nods. I zip the bag up for her and she puts it into the pocket of her jacket. She has a few pieces of clothes laying around my room she goes up to change into them. Before she goes, she kisses me on the cheek and then on the lips. She’s not much shorter than me so I wrap my arms around her, relaxing into it. I can really smell her now, really hear every little sound she makes with her lips. They give me chills. I may not know what I’m capable of, but I like these little things I know about. Little things I hope my mother enjoyed.

                “I’ll see you later.” I watch her walk out my front door and before she shuts it, she winks in my direction.

               

                There’s not much to do on this Saturday besides catching up on homework. But, after a few minutes of World History, I open a new Google tab. Spirit Kitsune. _Heightened senses_ , I read. _The creation of illusions, weather control, manifestation._ I close the laptop. I wonder if this is what Kira did, even though her mother probably told her everything she needed to know.

                I putter at things around the house until its dark again. I take a shower, dress, and crawl into bed, choosing something on my phone to watch until I fall asleep. When Malia’s not here, I have nothing to lull me to sleep, so I’ve taken to videos of the sounds of rain to bore me into submission. My real world melts into my dream world with a scream. But it’s not my scream; it’s Lydia’s. She’s standing under a black sky, drowning in the rain that pours from the clouds, lightning flashing behind her, making her visible. Her mouth opens wide, her nose scrunched up. The sound is more piercing now than it used to be. It vibrates, it breaks through everything. She sounds like a screeching bird. When she stops, it’s like she notices where she is. “This is you,” she says. “I didn’t put you here, Stiles.” She sounds scared now.

                “This is my dream.” Then I…my mind…made the storm?

                “No. It’s mine.” She backs up. Just then, I realize I’m seeing things from Lydia’s mind. Small moments of her in Allison’s room, flashes of Jackson sleeping in an old ratty t-shirt, her mother getting in her car. Somehow, she knows I’m awake in her head. We’re both lucid. “Please get out,” she pulls her lips in. She’s crying now. I’m _feeling_ what she feels. Embarrassment. It’s then when I see my hand on Malia’s face at the lacrosse game, me holding her in the cold. She’s trying not to think about it, not to show me any of these things, but that makes her produce them. “Get out!” She yells and the rain stops. My ears are popping and then a loud buzz breaks them open. I wake up.


	9. New Pitches

I sit straight up when my phone rings. My breath sucks in deep and wet like I’m swallowing water. Lydia’s picture comes up on the screen and it blares louder than it normally does when I’m fully awake. I don’t answer; I’m too busy trying not to have a panic attack. My skin’s overly sensitive, my face is sweating and my hairs are standing up. What did I just see? _Inside_ Lydia’s mind? Into her dream world and things she doesn’t want anyone to see? That bit with Malia and I- My phone buzzes off of my table with texts and it rings again, a deep techno I don’t recognize. Lydia’s picture is still on the screen. I lean over on my bed, suddenly a little afraid to reach near the dark space that lives under my mattress. I answer and all I hear is a white hot bubbling scream. It reaches pitches I’ve never heard; _can’t_ hear. The octaves go up and down, wavelengths of noise that crack my speakers and fuzz the sound.

                “Lydia?” I call into the microphone. Her scream cuts off in a sighed whimper. I pull the phone closer to my mouth and say her name again. I look at the screen. It’s black, the battery light is off, and the buttons don’t vibrate when I press them. I realize my phone has been dead since yesterday. I never charged it. Lydia is speaking a breathy cry now, barely audible but all around me. The room goes quiet, no computer buzzing, no warm sound of light bulbs, no creatures outside. Before I know it I’m pulling shoes on and running to my jeep. The night is dark and humid now in the early hours of the morning.

                I open Lydia’s front door, not bothering to knock. Deputy Parrish is inside standing with Lydia near the stairs. “Stiles…I couldn’t get ahold of you and I heard Lydia scream so I came here because I thought…” He pulls his lip in and Lydia walks closer to me. “Stiles, your father’s been shot.” My ears pop when I hear the words, they ring and ring, swirling in the middle of my stomach, making me want to puke.

                Parrish is talking to me through thick cotton, holding my arms so I don’t fall over. Lydia’s at my side, anchoring me to my life. “He’s in the hospital, they’re taking care of him.” I don’t answer Parrish, I turn to Lydia.

                “I can’t…I can’t…” I’m holding my throat. She’s starring me straight in the face, worried as could be.

                “Stiles, you need to try. Breathe with me. You know what happened last time, at Derek’s.” But I can’t breathe, because my throats closing up and my eyes are being blinded and there’s nothing colder than my hands and feet right now…I hear the wind blow outside, the cracking of branches. Then the rain comes down hard on Lydia’s roof, on her windows. I’m suddenly aware of how angry I am, how upset I am. Whoever shot my father… Why didn’t Lydia tell me Malia and I were upsetting her? Why can’t anyone help me? Did my father fight back? I yell. Thunder rocks the floors. And I don’t want it to stop. I want it to destroy this build-up of things; things that torture me and are so heavy on my shoulders. I want it to tear trees in half, houses in half and then chew them up and spit the pieces out. Why did I have to be the one to see her die? And why did he hate me so much after it happened? It hurt me too.

                It hurt me too.

                My body’s so exhausted but I keep yelling, keep screaming until the lightning is only two seconds apart. “Stiles, stop!” I open my eyes long enough to see Lydia in the corner, arms wrapped around her bare knees. Parrish is covering her head.

                I whisper to myself. “Wake up, Stiles,” remembering my earlier days as a shadow of myself; someone I didn’t know, someone I had no power over. Her windows shatter and I’m standing right in the middle of it, rain pricking my skin in cold touches, mixing with the heat of the room, making me sick to my stomach with temperature change.

                I want revenge.

                Lydia’s phone is out and she’s speaking into it, panicking but I can’t hear what she’s saying because my ears are ringing like a million bells.

                Minutes pass, more time, more destruction when I hear my name growled in a low, demanding voice. I can feel his eyes on the back of my head and a fire collecting in my stomach, begging my thoughts to retract, to listen to my alpha, to _obey._

                Scott roars and it’s like an earthquake in my chest. His hand is the warmest touch on my body. _“Stop, stop, Stiles_ ,” is echoing in my head, I can feel it bouncing around in my arms, in my legs. I breathe in deep and pull it all back. Scott is on me in an instant, picking glass out of my skin, asking me what happened, but Lydia is still in the corner. Scott helps me stand. “Why did you do this? “He asks. I walk to Lydia and Parrish on shaky legs, assessing the damage; the broken windows, the floor boards pulled up.

                “I’m so sorry, Lydia,” I cry, “for this, for-“

                “She needs you,” Lydia says, eyes wide.

                She screams.

 

                When her scream dies off, the room whistles. It’s all quiet, allowing her to hear what she needs to. No noises of breath, heartbeats blurry. A growl, something painful and doglike. Malia.

                “She was running in the Reserve, heading to the hospital for your dad,” Kira looks at me.

                “Go!” Parrish yells and we’re running out the front door. My father is fine, my father is fine. I jump on the back of Scott’s bike with him and he kicks it to life.

                “Which side of the reserve?” I call over the sound.

                “East. Closest to the hospital.” The bike skids over wet pavement, rain water spatters our pant-legs.

                “Malia!” We yell into the woods when we enter the trails of Beacon Hills Reserve. Malia doesn’t use the trails when she goes on hikes so we start walking. “Malia!” The ground is slick, branches fallen and mud puddles all around. I notice a break in the leaves; branches ripped off the trunks. The mud on the ground has lines in it, like something slid with it down a hill. When I walk towards it I notice other things; things that make my heart race.

                Wet blood on already wet rocks, material pulled to shreds on branches sticking upright out of the ground. I look down into the hole the mudslide created.

                Malia lays on her back, jacket sleeves torn up, and hair tied and twisted around her hands.

                I’m sliding down on my knees in the same seconds, catching myself on my arms so I don’t run into her. I grab her under her arms and pull her head into my lap. I take my hoodie off and wrap her small body in it. “Scott! Scott! Oh my god, Malia, oh god, I’m so sorry, oh god oh god.” I’m hyperventilating and rocking back and forth, rubbing her face, trying to wake her up. She’s breathing but no responding.

                “We can’t keep her on the bike. We can’t even really get her back up this hill.” I can only see the blur of Scott’s skin, the green in the trees through my blurry eyes. I did this. I made her slip.

                “Why isn’t she healing?” I sob.

                “If she hit her head, she could still be concussed.” He lifts her out of my hands. “I’m faster.” I can only hope he doesn’t fall on his way there. Malia’s head bobs back and forth, her body suspended in his arms. “Hey,” he turns to me. “I’ll get her there.” Scott makes sure her head and neck are stable before running carefully between the fallen trees. I sit in the dirt and burry my head between my knees. My cries come out in catching squeaks, ugly sobs crack my chest and my eyelashes stick together. Rain doesn’t come, it doesn’t cover my tears or the sounds of my meltdown. I don’t deserve to be helped this time.

               


	10. VERY IMPORTANT AUTHORS NOTE: UPDATES

IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE! I really do apologize for not updating but so many things have been keeping me from posting more chapters of this story. My computer totally screwed me over and I haven’t been able to type any of my writing for months until I finally got a new one. Also, my dad was diagnosed with cancer in February and I haven’t been able to concentrate on writing anything or updating this story or any of my others. He just got his tumor removed in surgery and is now recovering and I have a little more heart to write with. I’m sorry if this new chapter is not so awesome because I haven’t been in practice for a long time, but I hope you’ll still enjoy what’s to come. Thank you to those who are still picking up this story and continue to read it even though I’m terrible at updating. The next chapter should come in a week or two, as I am entering a few contests that keep me on deadlines. It’d be awesome if you would leave a comment and let me know if you are a new reader or if you’ve been keeping tabs on this story since I began writing it. Thank you again.

 

-Sara


	11. Final Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello Again

Me again, finally.   
I've been thrust back into the world of Fanfiction as it seems. I may update this story tomorrow but that all depends on if I abandon it or not. When you don't write a certain story in a while, and then go back to it, sometimes your style has changed and you're not really into the plot anymore. If I don't update by the end of next week, that means I've abandoned this story. If I do, I'm sorry to those who have followed it. But sometimes you just can't bring yourself to write a story you're not passionate about. However, I will be writing a final chapter for my other fic, Under It All, and that update will be posted by tomorrow night. So far, this new season of Teen Wolf hasn't given me much inspiration for writing any fic for it but time will tell. Thank you all for reading, I'll see you if I see you. 

-S


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